


Survivor's Guilt

by StarCrysis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Sexuality Crisis, Sick Character, throbb - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:56:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarCrysis/pseuds/StarCrysis
Summary: Credit to my friend Eric for working on this idea with meSet after Catelyn and Ned Stark have both left to King's Landing, but before Bran awakens from a comaTheon and Robb are captured by wildlings, and only trust and friendship can help them escape; something they're both lacking.I don't know how tags work on multichapter fics, so if I need to add or remove them, please let me know





	Survivor's Guilt

It had been some weeks since little Brandon Stark’s fall. His mother, Catelyn Stark, refused to leave his side, her mind ill with grief. She held Bran’s hand, and sleep would not befall her. She could barely remember watching her husband and girls leave for King’s Landing, and her remaining children, in Winterfell, were but peripheral shadows in the corner of her eye.

  


When Robb Stark, her firstborn son, had heard the wolves crying from Bran’s window, Catelyn was already seeing spots. Her eyes burned, and her throat felt as if it had been choking for weeks. Her chest was tight, and it stayed that way as Robb slammed out of the room, hurrying to a fire lit; she couldn’t even remember what he had said. Her eyes trailed on small Bran, his pale skin almost porcelain as he lay. His chest continued to rise and fall as she watched, afraid it could stop any second.

  


When the large, dumb, sellsword had come, brandishing a Valyrian steel dagger, she fought with her psychosis with every drop of blood she spilt. A madwoman, ready to die for her son, saved by his wolf she scorned for howling in the night. The man held the dagger, and her broken hands retrieved it, shaking.

  


A night passed, maybe two, and Maester Luwin had continuously come and go to change her bandages. She healed slow, but she healed. She healed herself out of the door the moment she awoke, and demanded she be accompanied to the Godswood by her family, along with trusted Lords and knights. Her son came, brandishing steel as he hadn’t before. Words of war began to cross lips as she told the tale in her mind, surrounded by looming weirwood. She was completely blind of what her accusations would entail. She tightened her resolve, promising actions that could later cause loved ones to die, or cause an empire to crumble with golden hands.

  


Catelyn Stark left Winterfell to Robb, accompanied by Ser Rodrick, and began to head for King’s Landing. _Winter is coming_ , she thought to herself, tightening her arms around the large knife. _And I will find out who did this._

* * *

  


Robb bustled into Theon’s chambers, waking the young Greyjoy. The man was shirtless under heavy silks, lifting his head up just slightly when his door had crashed open. He took in the figure standing in front of his door with blurred, dreamy vision, and irritatedly let his head fall back onto the pillow, closing his eyes again.

  


“Theon,” Robb said, a commanding tone in his voice. Robb may have been shorter and younger than the lanky, toned frame of Theon Greyjoy’s, but his muscles were greater. Where Theon’s arms had lean muscles, Robb’s pushed his arms off his sides, and where Theon’s abs were thin and defined, Robb’s were meaty and hard. His chest laid firmer and wider as well, below a hard jawline. Tight locks of auburn hair tumbled above his ears, and pairing that with his sky-blue eyes, you could tell from afar he had the makings of a Tully of Riverrun. His skin held warm and somber, despite the lack of a tan, and hard stubble was growing in as the days held longer, his mother having gone to King’s Landing.

  


“What?” Theon’s reply was a mumble into his pillow, and he seemed lethargic. Theon’s skin was a hard, pale grey, and half-lidded eyes donned the color of sage. His hair was more unkempt that Robb’s, and instead of chestnut brilliance, held wispy, thin tendrils, colored much like washed-out sand. His facial hair was thin too, coming in as patches above his lip.

  


Theon could tell Robb Stark was trying on his title every day. He was not Lord of Winterfell yet, but had been acting as so since his younger brother, Bran’s fall; a boy of just 10. Robb was not significantly older, but with his mother’s weakened psyche, he began to take care of Winterfell’s affairs in Catelyn and Ned Stark’s stead. Now that Catelyn had departed to King’s Landing, the Stark heir held his chin higher, and his voice louder as the days went on. Theon became less able to hide his irritation of Robb’s raised pride. Robb had busted into his room before, but now, he did it with a newfound authority.

  


“I think it would become of you to accompany me for a hunt,” Robb’s confidence spilled out through hard annunciation.Theon squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, his vision clearer. He turned onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows.

  


“Aye,” he said drearily. He looked upwards, meeting Robb’s gaze. “If you ask me again,” he added, with a hint of venom. “Like you’re my friend, not my lord.” He watched as Robb’s stoic face and rigid form began to relax, a conciliatory look overcoming the previous look of confidence.

  


“Sorry,” Robb apologized casually. He slowly pushed the door closed behind him, stepping inside.

  


“Why do you want to go hunting, anyway?” Theon asked, pulling his legs from the fur covers and pressing his bare feet against a hide rug below. He wore only white, baggy britches (off-white now, as it were, after many nights of spent gold and hard use). He rubbed his eyes, ridding them of an accumulation of the last night’s sleep. Robb leaned on the door handle some, his face mildly unsure.

  


“I guess I just need a break,” he admitted, his eyes focused on a spot on the floor. “From steel and ledgers and Bran’s wet nurses.” Robb had a frustrated tone in his voice, and he looked over to his friend, who began to pull on various leather articles of clothing.

  


“Ah, a bow, then,” Theon thought out loud, noting that Robb had just sworn off the clashing of steel for the day. “A bow always releases frustration for me.” He giggled lightly at his joke as he buckled up each buckle of his leather tunic. His grin spread wider. “As do other things.” He added. Robb rolled his eyes, but didn’t smile or laugh.

  


The room fell silent for moments, short of few sounds of rustling leather. Theon finally broke it, musing, “I know I’m pretty, Stark, but I can’t imagine why you’re still standing there.”

  


Robb responded with a perplexed look. Indeed he had been standing there, silent for some moments now, but his mind hadn’t been. It wandered through fears that had been haunting him for some weeks, since the day Bran fell. His mind had been on overdrive for well over a month, and he found his only solace through focusing on matters of Winterfell. This day, however, he stood in clingy fashion before his best friend, spacing out like the boy he still was, or had he forgotten?

  


“Shut up, Greyjoy,” Robb said mockingly, forcing a slight smile. He wasn’t sure if Theon held a front to his emotions, cracking smiles through tears, or if he truly didn’t care. He decided on the former, however, as, Theon’s inappropriate remarks lifted spirits in times of disarray. Robb turned to take his leave. “I’ll get the horses ready,” he announced, unlatching the brass handle and pulling the door ajar. The only response was more rustling, and he stepped out, returning the door to its position behind him.

* * *

  


Theon reached for his leather-bound steel. His sword was thin but sturdy, and had an edge like a razor, since he scarcely used it. The sheath was adorned with the sigil of his house; a golden Kraken lay near the hilt. He locked the belt in place over his tunic, snapping a small dagger to his left side. The dagger’s blade was more worn, as it had been used to skin small game directly following a hunt. Neither steel was Valyrian; Valyrian steel was a rich man’s toy. Lord Eddard only held Valyrian steel because he was a Stark, as, the Starks held the blood of the First Men. Their steel was passed down through generations, not raided as a Greyjoy’s might be. Ned Stark’s sword was named Ice, but you needn’t name a sword of common steel. Theon was no Stark, and still held his nameless blade with pride.

  


It was true he was captured from Balon Greyjoy at only age nine, but Theon found no ill-will towards the Starks most days. However, it would be a falsehood to say he never had. He forced pride regarding his house, as, he’d never truly learned what it meant to be a Greyjoy. Memories mixed with stories from wet nurses made up most of his knowledge; though, he only held those stories that spoke of his house with honor to any merit. He would never know what it was to be a Stark, either, which put him in severe existential crises during deep thought on the subject. He introduced himself mainly as Eddard Stark’s ward, rather than his prisoner, but that did not leave him blind to the truth. Ned Stark’s honor would befall him, and even as it pained him to think it, so would Robb’s, if Balon had ever decided to rebel again. No amount of brotherly friendship could change that, he knew.

  


Theon tightened his fingers around his bow. His sword would never be part of his arm like Robb or Jon Snow, but he still felt complete when the pressure from the bowstring shot through his right arm. He retrieved his quiver from beside his night table, already packed with steel arrows from the last time he sharpened those he retrieved.

  


The air still smelled of rotten sex with a redheaded northern whore named Ros. Robb must not have noticed, Theon decided, as he didn’t quip. Though, Robb seemed to hold a serious mood, and in turn, unresponsive to casual jest. He thought of how a crushing sense of responsibility was probably stifling Robb, paired with the stress of his brother’s condition. Bran still hadn’t woke up, and Robb seemed not to sleep in return.

  


Theon was not blind to Robb’s dreary attitude. He had once indulged his curiosity and followed the young Lord, in the late hours of twilight. It had only been a few moons since Bran’s fall coupled with his father and sisters’ departure to King’s Landing. Theon was returning from his northern whorehouse in the dead of night, and spotted Robb hastily traveling in the distance. Greyjoy was lean and quick and basically soundless as he landed his feet, carefully avoiding noisy obstructions.

  


It was not long before he had climbed quietly through the brush, completely aware of where Robb was headed. He watched as the son of his captor knelt below the Heart Tree, in the thick of the surrounding Godswood. His sobs weren’t as loud as you’d expect, but even Theon could hear them, yards away. Robb cried over his steel, and Theon left him there, taking note that his easy days with Robb were over.

  


Robb’s coming weeks would be filled with grief and training, and Theon’s with ignorance and whores. He helped Robb as much as he could during less eventful days, but he soon realized he was helping Robb the Lord, not Robb, his friend. Animosity began to grow toward Robb’s commanding demeanor, and that leaves him to this day, following Robb’s orders to conduct a hunt as a distraction.

  


Sighing, he crossed through the castle into the brisk air of dawn. The coolness in the air seemed to jolt his body from any residual sleepiness he still harbored his long night. He now itched to watch steel cut through the wind, slicing sweetly through any target he chose. He wanted to break fast, and used that as motivation to cross each stoned path with haste. He would do so over a fire with Robb, he thought. He hoped that would leave Robb’s sour, gloomy attitude behind them.

  


Theon was sick of laughing alone at his own jokes.

  



End file.
